


The Roommates - Chapter 3

by JD_Sira



Category: Suicide Squad (2016), Suicide Squad (Comics)
Genre: Breathplay, Choking, F/M, Face-Sitting, Femdom, Force Choking, Harley Quinn - Freeform, Non-Consensual Violence, Out of Character, Passout, Poison Ivy - Freeform, facesit, headscissor, headscissors, knockout - Freeform, ko, smother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 03:18:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11454870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JD_Sira/pseuds/JD_Sira
Summary: Jerome's roommates make his "worse" problems from Chapter 2 seem enviable





	The Roommates - Chapter 3

The first thing Jerome became aware of again was the pain. Jerome’s mind struggled towards consciousness, slowly but surely trudging through the hazy molasses of confusion and discomfort clouding his mind and suppressing the development of any complex thoughts. He couldn’t quite remember why he was hurting so much all over, but there was this strange lingering sense of dread nagging at the corners of his mind that he couldn’t get rid of, so he suspected that when his memory was jogged it wouldn’t be a pleasant one.

As Jerome came to he allowed himself a soft moan and tried to shift slightly to alleviate his discomfort – even addled as he was he could feel that his body was positioned quite awkwardly. His limbs were off at strange angles, the surface he was on was hard, and things were pressing against and into various parts of his body. His left arm felt stuck somehow. He managed to move his right hand only an inch before it caught on something – a handcuff? In that moment his memory jogged, he remembered why he was where he was and what had happened, and his consciousness came crashing back in on him. His eyes popped wide open.

“G’morning sleepyhead,” Harley said from her position right next to him. “We decided it was time to start hurting new parts of you. We can’t let your neck and jaw have all the fun.”

Then Jerome fully processed where his left arm was stuck: between Harley’s thighs. Her legs were stretched across his chest, her feet on the other side of his body being two of the things he could feel pressing against him. His right arm was indeed in a handcuffed, and the other side was now clamped onto the leg of the sofa, holding his arm up above his head. As his head whipped around (painfully) to take everything in, he found Pamela on the other side of him, her legs wrapped around his lower abdomen constituting the other set of things he had felt pressing into his body as he drifted back to consciousness.

“Oh no,” Jerome said, his voices a quivering whisper.

“Oh yes,” Harley said back. And apparently that was their cue. Harley tightened her thighs on his arm, the hard muscles of her legs pressing in on his comparatively small arm. The pressure was unbelievable; like a tourniquet but much worse ... also his arm was not injured ... yet. The his upper arm exploded in pain as his muscles were compressed against his bone into a space substantially smaller than the space they typically occupied. The pain radiated out from between Harley’s legs, throbbing a number of inches in either direction. Jerome could swear the bone was about to get crushed! He could feel the pressure of the squeeze all the way down to his fingertips as the flow of blood into and around his arm was disrupted.

He would have screamed in pain, but that option was foreclosed to him. At the same time Harley’s legs had clamped down on his upper arm, Pamela’s legs tightened around his abdomen, crushing his stomach in their vice-like grip. The soft flesh of Jerome’s stomach pressed inwards, reducing the distance between Jerome’s bellybutton and spinal chord to what had to be one third of the average distance. Jerome could feel the soft organs in his lower stomach get compressed and squeezed out of the way. The pain was unbearable, but that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst part was the suite of side effects Pamela’s squeeze had on the rest of his body. With his stomach being crushed, Jerome’s diaphragm had no room to maneuver, and he could barely draw in a breath. Thus the scream that had been foreclosed to him came out as more of a loud, miserable “UH-HUH” that sounded more like a well-projected sob ... which, really, was equally appropriate.

Additionally, the contents of Jerome’s intestines had been violently disturbed. It was all Jerome could do in his state of pain, shock, and lingering fuzziness from being knocked out twice to keep from soiling his pants. On the other end of his body, his stomach having suddenly found itself with much less room, he could feel the contents of his GI tract starting to try to find an escape in the other direction.

Between the pain, the mild dis-configuration of certain parts of him, the threat of soiling himself, and the beginnings of nausea, Jerome’s body was overwhelmed. His fight or flight

instincts kicked in, and adrenaline surged through his veins. In a position to neither fight nor flee, however, all this did was cause rising panic. After a couple sobs and pleas to a deity he didn’t believe in, mixed with some incomprehensible mumblings even he didn’t really know the meaning of, Jerome began to hyperventilate in a struggle to keep basic biological functions under control and get some oxygen into his damaged body.

“I think he’s starting to panic again.”  
“Squeeze harder.”  
Jerome was too far buried in pain and fear to experience any additional emotion, so the

words sounded as only a distant concern to him. He felt the grips on his arm and stomach somehow grow even stronger, flooding his brain with pain signals. He could feel his arm quickly going numb; it was starting to tingle and throb, and at the fingers he was starting to lose sensation. As he turned his head to the side, he saw that his arm was also wildly discolored, the pressure of the trapped blood squeezed into his forearm slowly turning everything variable colors of red and purple. The sight of his arm like that gave specific focus to his panic.

“My arm. My arm. My arm,” he started to mutter over and over again with each little burst of hyperventilating breath.

“I know! Isn’t it turning pretty colors!” Harley appeared quite bemused. “Does it hurt when I do this?” And with that she slapped his arm. The pain Jerome experienced at that prompted biology to give way to emotional need. Jerome’s diaphragm somehow found the room to help him pull in a breath, and he let out a wailing scream. His body broke out into a fit of spasms, desperate to somehow expel the pain and throw away its causes. It was to less avail than he might have expected, as his feet not only remained bound to one another, but the pair together now had a very limited range of motion; apparently while he was unconscious they had somehow bound Jerome’s handcuffed feet to something. As such, Jerome’s violent escape attempt looked a lot more like a bad seizure. At least he could scream again, a fact Harley was quick to take advantage of. As his first wail ended, Harley clapped her hands together on his forearm, sending Jerome into another involuntary scream. His body spasmed again, his limps pulling at their entrapments and rattling the chains of his handcuffs around while his chest did some strange, disturbed shimmy on the floor. His stomach, of course, barely moved; locked, as it was, between Pamela’s powerful legs.

For a third time, as his wail ended and his body returned to its “status quo” of mild writhing contortions, Harley clapped on his arm. Jerome found a new volume for his scream, and he kicked so hard he had no idea how the furniture was managing to hold him in place – he had no way of knowing that, despite its fervor, his physical protests were weak. His desperation could not overcome his oxygen deficit and the damage already done to him over the course of the night.

“Hang on a sec, Harley. Even in these nice apartments, yelling that loud may be heard by the neighbors.” Pamela suddenly let go of Jerome’s stomach (which was good, because Jerome realized as his intestines gurgled their way back into place that he may have only been seconds away from shitting himself). She wasted no time allowing Jerome to enjoy the comfort of the organs in his stomach returning to their normal locations. She simply crawled up Jerome’s body, over Harley’s legs, and stood above Jerome’s face staring down at him.

“No! Please!” Jerome begged, breaking from screaming for just a moment to beseech Pamela not to do what he knew she was about to do.

Pamela did not flatter his begging with any verbal response, nor did she simply sit down. Instead, as she stared into his eyes, she quickly and deliberately pulled off her shorts. In another circumstance, Jerome might have taken a moment to appreciate how smoothly clean shaven everything was, but, as things currently were, all he could do was offer a few more pleas for

mercy that he knew would not have any effect. All fabric thrown aside to make sure there would be a perfect seal on Jerome’s face, Pamela swiftly sat down to make sure Jerome’s screams would not bother the neighbors.

And by swiftly sat down, I really mean “fell.” Pamela’s legs did basically no work, and the full weight of her body came crashing down onto Jerome’s terrified face so fast he had neither the time to brace himself no even really think to try to turn away. Pamela wasn’t a particularly big woman, but she was solid athletic muscle, so she was not light ... also this was Justin’s head we are talking about – heads just are not that big. Pamela’s weight thundered down onto his face slightly off target, the center of her weight coming down right on the center of his face – on his nose. The sudden waves of simultaneously sharp and throbbing pain, alongside the crunch he heard/felt as she landed on him, suggested that his nose had broken under the impact. Not like there was a fissure in the bone; like there were multiple fissures and some portion of the structure had shifted to the left. But that wasn’t the end of the experience. Jerome’s brain was being bombarded with so much that it had to take one new wave of excruciating pain at a time, and an instant later Jerome was reminded that, as a necessary consequence of a crushing weight landing on his face, the back of his head had been slammed hard against the ground beneath it. Everyone has been knocked hard in the back of the head; it never feels good, to say the least. Jerome’s vision swam a bit with the impact. He let out another scream, this one a bit muffled, but Pamela hadn’t really sealed off his mouth.

“Oop! I missed!” Pamela laughed as if this was just some blooper from an outtake real. Then she grabbed a tight, painful hold of Jerome’s hair to hold his head in place, and scooted herself back along his face to plant herself firmly atop his mouth and nose. Tears were streaming from Jerome’s eyes, and he wanted to just cry and scream, but he couldn’t do either very successfully. In her current position she had sealed off all his air supplies in addition to muffling his noises. Jerome did his best to hold in what precious air he had managed to keep in his lungs.

“I think I broke his nose,” Pamela said. She reached down to pinch his misshapen nose, and wiggled it side to side. The pain was enough to overcome Jerome’s biological commonsense, and he made use of the remaining, mostly-oxygen-depleted air in his lungs to scream. For the most part, of course, his scream merely dissipated itself directly from his mouth into the flesh of Pamela’s vagina, and not much sound really escaped her body into the surrounding air. Pamela giggled, “yup, it’s broken, haha!”

Following his scream, Jerome found himself totally out of air. As basic biology demanded, he tried to draw a breath. Unfortunately physics interposed itself; Pamela’s body squatting on his face had perfectly sealed off all paths through which air might move to get to Jerome’s nose or mouth. So, not for the first time tonight, Jerome just started to spasm; his diaphragm trying to pull in air that just was not there.

“I love the way he twitches when he runs out of air. And I really love the fear in his eyes when he can’t breath.” Pamela was not lying. Her eyes were locked on Jerome’s, which were wide and flooded with fear, and were shifting around wildly as if looking for an escape, his pupils unnaturally dilated.

“Yeah, that’s great,” Harley responded. “But if he can’t breath, he can’t scream. And while I don’t want to wake the neighbors, I do want to hear how much I’m hurting him. Can he still breathe through his nose?”

“I suppose there is no harm in finding out,” Pamela responded, and she scooted herself back slightly, allowing Jerome’s nostrils just a tiny bit of space between his nose and her flesh for some air to slip through. Jerome sucked in air like only a desperate, suffocating man can. It hurt like a bitch as the pressure of the air surged through his shattered, but that was a necessary discomfort; Jerome needed to breathe. The main reason Jerome needed to breathe was because

he needed to breathe to scream. He used the air from his first inhale to let loose another scream into Pamela.

“That appears to have worked,” Harley said, and with that she spread her arms wide and clapped them back on Jerome’s forearm as hard as she could. And Jerome writhed and screamed again.

“Ohhhhhh,” Pamela moaned. “I like the way that makes his nose move against my clit. Do it again.”

Harley did it again. Jerome writhed and screamed again ... and again ... and again. “Faster! Don’t let him stop moving!”  
At this prompting, Harley switched tactics, and started swatting his arm from side to side

rapidly with a rapid series of slaps. Jerome’s entire conscious existence came down to the excruciating pain in his left arm. He had absolutely no control over anything he was doing at that point. Everything in his mind simply told him to scream and writhe around on the ground.

“Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Oh fuck yes!” Pamela breathed as her excitement grew. “More! Hurt him more. Hurt him more, Harley.”

“I think I got one trick left up my sleeve,” Harley responded. She grabbed Justin’s purple hand, rotated the palm towards the ceiling, laid his arm across her stomach up from her groin, leaned away from Jerome, and arched her back to hyperextend Jerome’s elbow. This made the slapping that had been happening a moment ago feel like mild bruising by comparison. Jerome went wild, screaming at a pitch he would have insisted he was physically incapable of achieving and throwing his body around like a bull trying to buck a rider. Of course, Jerome was much less effective than a bull ... unless his goal was to bring Pamela to the brink of orgasm.

Jerome’s arm was being bent to its limit; he could feel the connective tissue stretched to the brink of its breaking point inside his joint. Harley didn’t seem to care much that she was on the brink of causing some fairly long lasting damage as she entertained herself with punctuated little thrusts of her hip to bend his arm at an obscenely painful angle in punctuated bursts. Jerome was relatively shocked something hadn’t just broken at this point. Pamela, meanwhile, was having the time of her life. The blood flowing from Jerome’s nose and dripping down his face began to act much like lube as she ground herself on his face. She didn’t stop to check on his nose, or ease up in the slightest to spare it; she just ground harder and harder as she got more and more excited, buffeting his already broken nose about and pressing in on his face so hard that his lips were repeatedly cut against his teeth.

“Oh! That’s it! That’s it!” Pamela yelled, thrusting and grinding on Jerome’s destroyed face. And then Harley worked her final bit of magic. She let go of his hand with one hand, while using the other to continue holding it against her body at the edge of breaking. With her free hand, she started slapping at his forearm again, gruesomely combining the brutal hyperextension of his elbow with the searing pain of being slapped in a limb long deprived of blood flow. Between the mind-blowing pain and the struggle of breathing through a broken, bleeding nose while a woman ground herself on his face in ecstasy, Jerome was both shocked and dismayed that he did not simply pass out on the spot. Instead, his mind seemed content to stick with screaming and making its best attempt to flail; turning his face into Pamela’s personal vibrator. After what felt like an eternity, Pamela came. Jerome could tell for two reasons. Firstly, Pamela stopped grinding rhythmically on his face, and instead grabbed his hair as she through everything she had into one final, brutal thrust that she held as she arched her back, pulling Jerome’s hair so hard that some of it ripped out of his head. Secondly, a new suite of juices burst forth onto his face.

When Pamela’s moment of true ecstasy finally ended, she let go of Jerome’s hair, and his head thumped limply back onto the ground. Jerome’s first attempt to draw in a real breath was

still thwarted, however, as Pamela’s cum had flowed up his nose and dripped into his mouth, causing him to have to choke and gag through the liquid before he could take in any substantial amount of air. As Pamela’s orgasm clearly ended, Harley finally let go of Jerome’s arm so she could move towards her heaving, sweating roommate. Jerome’s arm flopped limply onto the floor, though the excruciating discomfort was alleviated less than he would have hoped; the burning tingle of his blood surging back into his arm was almost as bad as the throb of having the blood held back, and he could not move his elbow joint at all without tremendous pain. So Jerome left his arm where it was, and took this moment of respite to close his eyes and try to compensate for all of his missing oxygen. He felt Harley sit on his chest, but realized that it wasn’t about him at the moment, as Harley was engaged in tenderly making out with Pamela while she told her how hot it was to watch her orgasm on Jerome’s face.

Perhaps it’s finally over? Jerome thought to himself. As soon as he had the thought he regretted it; this was not the night to tempt the fates by jinxing what little luck he might come across!

But that wasn’t the biggest problem with that thought; the biggest problem with that thought is that the sensation of hope had eased his breathing just slightly. Just slightly ... but noticeably. Jerome’s eyes popped back open as he heard the tender kisses suddenly cease, and felt Harley’s torso rotate on top of him. Harley was looking down at him with a mischievous smile.

“Don’t get too comfy, now, Jerome – I still haven’t had my turn,” Harley said.  
HER TURN?!?! Jerome’s mind went straight back into a panic and his eyes went wide. “Harley, please, my face – I can’t-“ Jerome’s painful mumbling through his broken lips was

quickly interrupted.  
“That’s ok, honey, you don’t have to do anything. I can be on top tonight,” Harley said with

false caring. And with that she stood up and pulled her bottoms off.  
Justin started to sob ... again. Not knowing what else to do, he simply began to blubber a

variety of pleas again as he watched Harley strip on top of him. “Please, Harley, I’ll do anything you want, let me pay you something, please!” It wasn’t working. Harley, her bottoms thrown aside, facing Pamela so that she could watch from her position still atop Jerome’s stomach where she had placed herself to make room for Harley, was simply positioning herself above Jerome’s head. Jerome got desperate. “Please Harley! My car! You can have my car! Anything!”

“Jerome,” Harley said. “You drive a total P.O.S.”

And with that she dropped herself onto Jerome’s face. Just like Pamela before her, she kind of just let gravity do the trick, even picking her legs up off the floor a little bit, letting the weight of her tight, muscular body come crashing down onto Jerome’s face. Harley landed a couple inches lower on Jerome’s face, with the center of her fall located on Jerome’s mouth. If Jerome’ thought his lips were in poor shape before, at this point he wouldn’t have been surprised if they simply weren’t there anymore. He hadn’t had any time to think that maybe it would be better to clench his jaw; he’d had only the time to widen his eyes and watch in abject horror as Harley’s ass came plummeting towards his face. As such, there was a gap between his teeth that his lips sought to take full advantage of as the weight of Harley’s dropping body compressed them. Jerome’s teeth, in turn, did what teeth are designed to do, and shredded his lips as the fled Harley’s weight.

Blood gushed into his mouth to mingle with the little bits of his lip he could feel fall between his teeth. The back of his head, smashing into the ground again in exactly the same spot, radiated dizzying amounts of pain, and if his eyes hadn’t been pressed firmly into Harley’s ass cheeks he was sure he would have been cross-eyed. Beaten and battered as he was, with a throbbing spell of dizziness surging through his brain, he did not flinch the same way he did

earlier in the night. His body twisted in an instinctive agonized escape attempt, but with less enthusiasm. Pamela kept her balance atop his abdomen without much difficulty, and the three limbs secured to various pieces of furniture made only meek attempts to challenge the authority of their placement. His fourth arm, unfortunately, forgot it’s recent ordeal, and tried to pull itself in for a bit of self-defense. As pain instantly radiated from his badly damaged elbow, it turned the surge of motion into a series of excruciating twitches, leaving his arm to have its own isolated seizure on the floor next to him. The extra pain helped bring things back into focus; a development Jerome deeply resented, as the throbbing dizziness had been a welcome reprieve, that being as close as his body apparently felt like coming to merciful unconsciousness.

“Ok, get him going Pam,” Harley said, apparently satisfied with her position.

“Gimme a moment, I need his leg free, and I wanna make sure he can’t try to use this as an opportunity to fight back,” Pamela responded. She then scooted off of Jerome’s abdomen to somewhere beside him. Jerome couldn’t tell exactly where she was going or what she was doing, of course, because Harley’s ass was planted firmly on his face. All he knew was the next thing he felt was Pamela placing her hands on his right leg just above the knee and below the waist. Having no clue what was coming next, all he could do was wait for the inevitable pain.

He didn’t have to wait long, as with a grunt of effort Pamela rammed her knee as hard as she could into the meat of Jerome’s thigh. The pain was everything you would expect it to be, in addition to which Jerome felt the muscles in his leg immediately tighten and cramp. In athletic circles this type of phenomenon is known as getting “dead-legged,” but usually it’s more the result of an unintentional collision than a purposeful attempt to prevent someone from being able to use their leg.

Jerome’s parasympathetic nervous system forced him to lurch in response to the pain, despite his conscious knowledge that movement was a bad idea. His lurch didn’t even manage to lift his head off the ground, but it did manage to press his face harder into Harley’s ass, crunching his broken nose even further out of position and pressing his broken lips hard into the lips of Harley’s vag. His grunt-like wail of pain came with a gurgling mix of the blood from his lips mingling with the juices from Harley’s, creating a macabre but sensual act wherein Jerome involuntarily began to eat Harley out while he struggled and screamed.

Jerome’s problems were far from over, however. By “make sure he can’t try to use this as an opportunity to fight back,” it appeared Pamela really meant “make sure he cannot use his right leg for the next couple weeks.” As excruciating as the first time Pamela drove her knee into his thigh muscle was, it was nothing compared to the pain of the second time Pamela drove her knee into the exact same spot, which in turn was nothing compared to the pain of the third time, and so on and so forth. Pamela drove her knee into Jerome’s thigh again and again as hard as she could, causing so much tissue damage in his thigh that Jerome’s knee and hip began to hurt as the swelling, bruised muscles tightened unnaturally and tugged at the joints they were connected to. After what had to be at least ten brutal knees into his leg, Pamela paused. Jerome came to the unwise conclusion that Pamela was done, his leg clearly being totally useless at this point, as it twitched and spasmed on the ground in ways he clearly could not control. But Pamela wasn’t done at all, she was just being methodical, and needed to scoot over a few inches to start in on a new part of his leg. For what had to be at least a minute, but for Jerome felt like an hour, Pamela continued to ram her knee into Jerome’s thigh, slowly and methodically moving up and down the muscle to make sure she got all of it. Then, when she had contented herself that she had kneed his entire thigh from the top to the bottom, she returned to the place she had started, and began the process again.

If Jerome had had any of his wits about him, he might have marveled at the level of fitness it took to rain blows with such ferocity and frequency for over a minute without letting up in the

slightest. But Jerome did not have any of his wits about him; the pain had crashed through his brain and occupied every synapse his neurons had to offer. His entire body contorted and thrashed in desperate but futile attempts to escape. This accomplished nothing more than to delight Harley as his broken face squirmed against her. Jerome tried to scream, but Harley was moaning in ecstasy and grinding hard on his face, so when he opened his throat to get out a scream a mixture of Harley’s juices and his blood tumbled down his throat, and he did nothing more than choke loudly. His choking caused his mouth and tongue to thrash about wildly as he tried to clear the liquids flowing back into his lungs, but mostly what his mouth and tongue did was dance all around Harley’s clit. Harley, for her part, let out a moan that was almost a wail of ecstasy, and somehow found it in her to grind on his face even harder than before. Apparently Harley was the type of woman who only got wetter the more excited she got, because accompanying the renewed efforts of her grinding was a new flow of her juices, which flowed unerringly into Jerome’s open mouth and down into his throat to add to the morass of mingled fluids Jerome’s gagging and choking was already totally failing to clear.

Jerome’s choking grew more violent, so he spasmed harder, and so Harley grew more excited, and so she got more wet, and this cycle made the path to orgasm fairly clear for Harley. Jerome, for his part, managed to finagle a new feeling in alongside the pain from Pamela’s knee: panic. Between Harley’s furious grinding and his prolonged choking fit, Jerome was once again getting no air. Oxygen deprivation had become par for the course for this night (which wasn’t to say he was used to it), but this was even worse! Because there was a mix of his blood and spit and Harley’s juices now clogging his esophagus (and a severe burning sensation in his chest that generally accompanied lack of oxygen but Jerome’s panicked mind decided had to be liquid flowing back into his lungs), Jerome was convinced he would not going to be able to breathe even when Harley finally lifted herself off of him ... not that Jerome considered that likely to be something that would necessarily happen soon anyway. The panic Jerome now experienced was not the mere panic of oxygen deprivation mixed with excruciating pain; now Jerome’s scrambled, exhausted, oxygen deprived brain also feared for his life. Of course, he could not communicate that to his tormenters, and while he had not gone into this thinking his roommates might put him in mortal danger, he was at this point not sure they would care if he was so situated. As if to confirm his fears, Harley managed to gasp out a few words in between her moans.

“Oh god! He’s choking so hard! I’m almost there! Make him hurt more! I want to feel him choke on his screams, Pamela, I want to feel him spasm against me! More pain! More pain! Make me cum so hard! HURT HIM!”

“What the hell does it look like I’m doing?”  
“MORE! HURT HIM MORE!!”  
Pamela just laughed. “Alright, alright, I’m on it haha!”  
And with that Pamela finally stopped driving her knee into the flesh of Jerome’s leg. But

Jerome wasn’t thankful. His face was covered, but his ears were not; he had heard the conversation, and knew the worst was yet to come. He had no idea what could possibly hurt more than being repeatedly kneed in the meat of his thigh muscle, but he was confident that Pamela could think of something.

His confidence was not misplaced. Pamela grabbed Jerome’s spasming leg and pulled it up and out wide, then nestled his already demolished thigh in between her thighs. Jerome thought he knew what was coming, but he was only partially right ... in that he only predicted around one third of the overall pain Pamela had positioned herself to inflict. The part he predicted was that Pamela would kick her legs out and crush the battered, cramping muscles of his thigh between her thighs. This alone fulfilled Pamela’s giggled promise to Harley. But Pamela was not done; she was going to give Harley the orgasm of her life, and that meant putting Jerome in whole new

realms of pain. She needed him to writhe and (try to) scream with renewed fervor, and she was going to make it happen.

Pamela’s legs didn’t kick out without direction; they kicked out into Jerome’s left leg, which she used as leverage to pull his right leg way out wide, stretching the muscles in his groin beyond their limits and warping the connective tissue in his hips. As Jerome could have told anyone long before this night started, he was not the type of man flexible enough to comfortably do a split! But Jerome’s hip wasn’t the only joint Pamela intended to torture in the process of bringing Harley to climax. In addition to straightening her legs and stretching Jerome into a split that he could not do, Pamela thrust her hips forward and arched her back. With her arms wrapped around Jerome’s ankle to hold it against her chest, that motion inverted Jerome’s knee as his leg bent with the arch of her muscular back.

The muscles in Jerome’s groin were stretched past where they could actually stretch, his quads were twitching and seizing as they continued to reel from the beating delivered by Pamela’s knee, and now the connective tissue between his hip and his knee was being stretched past its capacity to properly maintain the shape of a human leg. The pain was so excruciating it managed to surge to the forefront of Jerome’s conscience, surpassing even the mortal fear arising from his total inability to pull in air. And so Pamela fulfilled her promise. Everything Jerome’s body was doing was entirely automatic; he had lost all semblance of willful control of his motions as his tormented body surrendered to his survival instincts. Of course, in his current predicament, those instincts did nothing to help him.

With his destroyed face totally covered by Harley’s vagina, and Harley’s fluids flowing down his throat, Jerome’s panicked, oxygen deprived brain told him to make every effort to clear out the obstacles to his breathing and inhale. So his diaphragm went into wild spasms trying to pull in air that just wasn’t there. With her back arched in ecstasy, all Harley could see was the ceiling, but from her view where she was stretching the flesh of Jerome’s leg Pamela could watch Jerome’s stomach go through strange, almost possessed-looking contortions as the entirety of his abdomen worked to pull in air past the flawless seal of Harley’s flesh grinding against his face. In a desperate attempt to break that seal, every part of Jerome from his neck up made every effort to escape from Harley’s merciless grinding. He shook his head as hard as he could, manipulating his mouth and tongue to try to find even the suggestion of air. The notion of futility was simply no match for his basic instincts, which demanded that he find a way to breathe. If anything, his efforts were counterproductive. The shaking of his head seemed only to push himself deeper into his predicament ... literally. The harder he shook and spasmed, the harder Harley kept grinding, pushing herself harder and harder against his face, and Jerome could have sworn he was just going further into her, his face being engulfed, almost consumed, by Harley’s eager pussy. Notwithstanding his knowledge of human anatomy, Jerome would have believed someone at that moment if they told him that his entire mangled face had been sucked inside of Harley. And every instinct driven spasm just worked him further and further into her, leaving him no avenue of escape, and no hope of breathing.

Unable to breathe, he had no way to scream in pain as Pamela made a valorous effort to invert Jerome’s knee; a fact Jerome’s body made up for my throwing itself into (guess what?) more spasms. Jerome instinctively lurched and writhed, pressing his head up even as Harley bore down on him with all the might of her unabridged ecstasy. Jerome was pressed so hard up and into Harley that Pamela could only barely see the back of his head where it was pressed against the floor underneath Harley, whose body was writhing sensuously as she ground against Jerome’s face, genuinely appearing to make every effort to thrust Jerome inside her like some sort of reverse birthing.

As Pamela’s bent her body with all her might, Jerome’s panic and pain brought him to a seizure-like climax of tortured writhing, which in turn finally brought Harley to a moment of pure, primal ecstasy. Harley gave a great gasp, and her mouth opened in a silent scream of delight as her eyes opened wide, appearing genuinely surprised that it was possible to pack this much pleasure into a single moment. Her left hand reached back to grab a handful of Jerome’s hair and pull his head up against her with all the might of a glorious orgasm. In the throws of her ecstasy her legs pushed down, lifting her entire body, with Jerome’s face still pressed firmly up inside her. And then, as her orgasm peaked, the thrust herself downwards with all her might. Jerome’s head crashed to the floor, the weight of Harley’s body crashing down on top of his face with the force of her thrust, pressing his face so deep inside of her that Pamela would swear for the rest of her days that Jerome’s head simply disappeared into Harley. To help gain the leverage she needed to maintain the force of her thrust for the duration of her climax, Harley’s free hand reached down and grabbed Jerome’s right pectoral. She grabbed it in the most literal sense possible. With the kind of strength only the best type of orgasm can bring on, her hand curled around Jerome’s pectoral, her nails actually piercing his skin as she clung to the muscle itself to pull herself hard against Jerome’s agonized, writhing form. In her moment of ecstasy, her vagina may as well have been a soda fountain.

A volume of liquid that could have saved a shipwrecked sailor gushed from Harley into Jerome’s waiting mouth. Had he not been convinced death was only moments away, he might have savored the delightful taste, but as it was the slightly viscous, slimy liquid plunged unerringly into a throat that wanted nothing more than to manage to suck in air, further gumming up the biological plumbing responsible for supplying Jerome with oxygen. As Harley finished, she suddenly became weak, and her hand used Jerome’s bleeding pectoral as a support to hold herself up. Her entire body was shaking with the wariness that followed the exertion of her orgasm. Pamela quickly let go of Jerome’s leg, which joined his arm in passionately spasming uselessly on the ground, unable to conceive of a position that might alleviate the pain or help restore the damaged flesh. Pamela had not the least bit of concern for Jerome, but she saw Harley about to collapse, and quickly provided her with support. She wrapped her arms around Harley’s quivering form, giving her a gentle, sensual kiss as she lowered Harley into a seated position beside Jerome where she could lean against the furniture and recover.

When Pamela finally pulled her lips away from Harley’s, she turned to find Jerome lying on the ground twitching with his face turning a sick purple color and his eyes rolled back in his

head.  
“Hang on a second, honey. I should probably make sure our roomie doesn’t die on us here.

Something tells me the cause of death would be pretty fucking obvious.” Pamela moved away from Harley and straddled Jerome, placed her hands on his chest, and started administering CPR. Damaged as his chest was, this should have hurt, but in a rare moment of good fortune for the night he was too far gone for the pain to register. As Pamela pumped away at his chest Jerome began to start spitting up the mixture of liquids that was clogging up his airway, and spurts of a viscous liquid with strings of his blood mixed in began to push past his lips and flow down the sides of his face. With the liquid coming out slowly and spastically, in coordination with Pamela’s rhythmic pumping on his chest, the first sign of returning to the world of consciousness Jerome showed was to start gagging and choking as his body found itself once again able to work on preventing liquid from invading its lungs. In a singular moment of cooperation, Jerome’s body worked in something approaching coordination with Pamela, who continued to pump at his chest to help him clear enough liquid so that he could breathe again. After all, what fun would it be to choke someone who was already unconscious? You can’t witness the panic and discomfort of your victim if they have lost the capacity to feel and express their pain.

Once it became apparent that Jerome’s body could take over the process, however, Pamela stopped pumping and sat to the side to watch Jerome sputter and twitch his way back into consciousness as his eyes decided to turn their vision outward again. As Jerome’s sputtering gave way to gasps and his body pulled in some of the oxygen it had been repeatedly deprived over the last while, Jerome managed to gather his wits enough to get out a few words.

“I think I’m gonna throw up,” he said, not counting on much (any) sympathy, but feeling like he should inform the world anyway. Maybe that would gross the girls out? Maybe they would rather he puked not on the floor? There wasn’t much rationality to the statement – it was really more just force of habit.

“Oop! We don’t want that mess all over the floor,” Pamela said as she hopped up and darted off in the direction of the kitchen. This confused Jerome, who was relatively certain that he personally had to be moved to some sort of receptacle if Pamela didn’t want his vomit all over the floor, in which case Pamela simply hopping off and leaving Jerome where he was not going to prove very helpful. The sound of a drawer opening didn’t do anything to alleviate Jerome’s confusion. The sound of a trash bag being shaken open a moment later answered the riddle, however. Pamela had no intention of undoing Jerome’s bindings and moving Jerome to a receptacle; she was simply going to bring a receptacle to him.

Pamela pranced quickly back over to Jerome’s side with the trash bag. Jerome gave an involuntary moan as his nausea took a more firm hold of him the more conscious he became.

“Harley, I don’t want him to enjoy the simple comfort of vomiting for too long as a reprieve from our fun and festivities. How soon will you have recovered from your orgasm? I think a little ‘bellows action’ might hurry this process along so we can get back to the real fun.”

“Oh, I’ve already recovered enough to help with that!” Harley responded excitedly.

Jerome wanted to protest, to beg for mercy – in spite of everything his survival instinct simply would not let him stop trying to elicit some sympathy, no matter how unrealistic it rationally seemed – but at this point he couldn’t even manage to pull that off. All he ended up doing was letting up a noise artfully balanced between a moan of anguish and a sob of hopeless despair as Pamela brought the bag up next to his face so he would have something to vomit into. He didn’t know what was about to happen, but he couldn’t bring himself to be concerned enough at this point to watch and find out. He was nauseas, he was in a lot of pain, he was miserable, and whatever new torment was coming his way he would be powerless to stop it one way or another. Figuring he may as well not vomit straight up into the air where it would simply fall back onto his face, he compliantly turned his head to the side so his mouth was facing into the bag Pamela was holding open next to him. He could hear Harley sitting up from her leaned back position to scoot closer to him, but his body lay limp, resigned to whatever new torment she was going to exhibit upon it. He would return to involuntary begging and screaming when the pain began, but in the moment he would relish this moment where he could lose himself in the mind-numbing nausea he was feeling that would have made even most alcoholics cringe. Compared to what had happened and what he figured was coming, his current discomfort may as well have been a pillow-top mattress with high thread count sheets and downy pillows.

As he stared into the trash bag, his nausea forcing him to start breathing quickly and salivating unnaturally, he felt Harley lift his torso and slip the soft part of his stomach in between her thighs. In that moment Jerome began to understand what Pamela had meant when she used the phrase “bellows action.” Virtually simultaneously with this epiphany Harley’s legs tightened down on Jerome’s stomach as Harley tried with all her might to simply squeeze Jerome’s vomit out, as if he was simply a fruit to be juiced.

Jerome’s innards squirmed in protest, pushing his vomit up into his throat unnaturally quickly. He felt his throat rush to accommodate the impending rush of fluids coming up from his

stomach, and his tongue felt swollen in his mouth. Jerome’s eyes bulged from his face, and he gagged and drooled a little bit into the bag, making some funny noises as his body fought with itself: the part being squeezed was adamant that it was time to throw up, and his throat insisted that this was all happening too quickly and it wasn’t quite ready yet.

Harley was far too sophisticated to allow that scenario to persist. She had no intention of simply squeezing and waiting – a bellows was not simply squeezed once; a bellows was pumped continuously. So Harley pumped. In one moment she would straighten her legs and squeeze the soft, yielding flesh of Jerome’s belly between her powerful thighs until the interior edges of her legs were almost touching and Jerome’s organs had to either compress themselves or move to other parts of his body, and then she would release the pressure and let Jerome’s stomach and organs return to their more natural positions, and then she would bear down again with all her might and force Jerome’s organs to find a new place to retreat to. Over and over again Harley squeezed and released, sloshing Jerome’s intestines up into his rib cage where they fought for space with the rest of his organs before letting them rush back down into his belly.

As soon as Harley began her second squeeze, Jerome’s innards won out over his throat, and he violently through up into the bag he had placed his head inside of. It was not a vomit that came with any sense of relief as the irritant was shoved out of his stomach; it was a disgusting, chunky, vile vomit filled with the blood he had swallowed, bile that had been over-produced and was out of place, and pieces of partially digested food that had been forced out of digestion and back out into the world by his body’s reaction to a severe beating. Unlike a typical nausea spell, the feeling did not abate in the slightest while Jerome threw up. Harley’s continuous, brutal pumping action on his stomach provided all the encouragement his stomach needed to continue forcing everything inside of him up and out. Every couple-few squeezes, the disturbing contortions Jerome’s organs were forced to make to escape the disappearing space between his belly button and his spine forced Jerome to throw up again. Jerome was throwing up so violently and so continuously that he found himself once again unable to breathe, as somehow Harley had managed to turn even nausea into a tool for oxygen deprivation.

“We need to make sure we empty him out so we don’t have to bother with this nonsense again,” Pamela said. She then lifted Jerome’s head slightly and shoved one end of the garbage bag under his cheek, and then pulled the draw strings so that the trash bag closed itself around Jerome’s face, holding it in place so that she no longer had to keep her hands on it. Jerome was too busy heaving to wonder what it was she planned on doing, and with the bag wrapped around his face he couldn’t see her moving. He was therefore totally unprepared when Pamela fist thundered into Jerome’s solar plexus, sending waves of new pain radiating from the center of his torso. As per usual, Pamela didn’t stop at one hit, and instead commenced a systematic pounding of Jerome’s exposed, undefended solar plexus. With Harley’s legs wrapped around his lower abdomen and his limbs variably restrained by creative combinations of handcuffs and furniture, Jerome’s instinctual attempts to curl up and protect himself manifested as nothing more than a seizure-like flopping that reminded Pamela of a fish that had just been pulled onto the deck. If anyone had bothered to ask Jerome, he probably would have said in that moment that he would rather have been the fish.

Jerome’s ability to inhale was, obviously, severely limited, but occasionally his body found a space between Harley’s rhythmic squeezing and Pamela’s systematic punching to pull in a bit of air – some small amount of which was required to aid in the retching process. Uncomfortable as being unable to breathe was, Jerome regretted every involuntary inhale. With his face sealed to the bag he was puking into, each inhale came with the indescribably bad odor of concentrated vomit air. Each inhale encouraged further nausea, and as the air in the bag became saturated with puke fumes Jerome’s eyes began to burn and water ... well, water more – he was already

crying anyway, so that was not really a new development. The newest development he would have noted if he was capable of even mild perceptive activity was that, his body having rid itself of the entirety of the contents of his stomach already, he had moved on to a combination of violent dry heaving interspersed with the occasional successful expulsion of little bits of stomach acid. He had nothing left to get rid of, but his body insisted, in light of the situation, that something be expelled, and so he gagged, drooled, and threw up small puddles of pure stomach acid.

Jerome had no idea how long this process went on. Realistically it could probably have been measured in minutes, but to Jerome it felt like hours ... possibly a day or two, before Harley finally said, “Ok, I don’t think he’s got anything left to work with. Can we continue with the night? Listening to him try to push his esophagus out of his mouth is getting kind of boring.”

“Good call,” Pamela responded. “Let’s take an intermission while I throw this bag away and then we can get back to it.”

Jerome felt the ruthless squeezing and punching finally abate as Harley slid him out from between her legs. As Jerome continued to gag and wretch for a few seconds following the sudden cessation, happy his organs could finally settle back into place but definitely not enjoying the sensation of his innards sliding around to try to find their way back to somewhere near where they ordinarily rested, some corner of his mind could not help but marvel at the type of strength and stamina his roommates were displaying. These women were fit. Squeeze after squeeze, punch after punch, they did not let up; the unbelievable strength demonstrated in the first squeeze did not abate, ever. Each time Harley straightened her legs and her thighs crushed down on his stomach, it was with the same force, or possibly more – Jerome couldn’t be sure; his belly button had gotten steadily closer and closer to literally pressing against his spine, but he was unsure of whether it was because Harley was squeezing harder or if his abused torso was just getting softer as his flesh steadily lost its structural integrity.

When Jerome’s heaves began to abate, Pamela pulled the trash bag off of his face, pulled it the rest of the way shut, and placed it to the side. Before Jerome could wonder why she didn’t just pick it up and walk it to an actual trash can, Pamela casually picked up his limp face and placed Jerome’s neck between her legs. She had no intent of really squeezing again, which is what Jerome figured was coming at that point. Instead, right as Jerome finished a deep inhale as he tried to gasp in air, Pamela pulled his face into her stomach, using her hold on his neck only as a way to make it easier to hold his face in place. It was a move designed to maximize discomfort. Jerome would inevitably be slowly growing numb to the pain of headscissors, and by cutting off blood flow they more quickly achieved oxygen deprivation and pushed a victim unconscious. Instead Pamela would simply hold his face tight against her gloriously toned yet somehow still sensually soft stomach and smother him, letting him feel the burn in his chest as his lungs ached for air. Pamela wanted him to feel the slow pain of suffocation, which is why she let him inhale first – he had a short, teasing taste of oxygen to linger in his mind for the next couple minutes as he slowly faded away.

Jerome tried to just let it happen, aware at this stage of the night that there was nothing he would be able to do to pull in air. But Jerome’s parasympathetic nervous system didn’t give a flying fuck what Jerome was trying to do – as his lungs began to burn in desperation and every bit of his body began to scream for air, Jerome could not help but struggle to get his face somehow away from Pamela’s stomach. As anyone could have predicted at this point, Jerome’s struggles were utterly futile. His desperate attempts to wrench his face from side to side to break free of Pamela’s stomach got him absolutely nowhere, and the spasms of his diaphragm yanking away at his lungs did nothing to bring any oxygen into his system. And so Jerome slowly twitched and jerked his way into merciful unconsciousness. The final little miracle his body managed to

pull off as he slipped into oblivion, his lungs burning with the unique sear of suffocation, occurred in his eyes. The last thing Jerome was aware of was the desperate pull of his lungs trying to get air, and the flow of tears that was somehow still streaming from his eyes. And then the world disappeared for him once more.


End file.
